From my substack: Burn With You Down
Original poem written by me, Steeleumbra, and originally uploaded to substack on Nov 19, 2024
Trigger warning (that I forgot to add to my original substack upload): This is about intolerant and hateful religious and political extremism--technically directed toward the memory of the person who abused me, using but not exclusively both, many years ago, and to the type of person who would do so to others today. This contains NON-glorifying talk of adult subject matters including mentions of S.A. (though not applicable to every action mentioned); reader discretion highly advised, especially for anyone who has experienced any form of abuse (and most especially if you were told it was your fault, because that is NOT the message I am trying to convey here; but the wording I used could definitely make it seem like it is for those who have a mental, physical, and/or other type of abuse history). I very much debated putting this behind a Sensitive Subject Matter wall here on Tumblr, and will likely do so in the near future. But I want there to be enough time for those who wish to see it freely, to not be hindered by needing a Tumblr account to do so.
There is no war like the
war within Unless you take your war and glue it to my face
with empty tears telling me how sad you've been That no one is listening when you tell them love
and understanding
guided your hand The devils dick is in your cheek But you won't bite it off leave him with a stub
to get your voice back Come on! Where's your bitch ass gone Stop pumping shit through your veins while you're laughing through your pain
and bleeding from your knees
Do you really enjoy being afraid of everything Following like a racist in the wind stuck to the ass of a limousine
headed to the fires The home of everything dark that breeds and seethes desperate to feed Do you really think this is peace
You come from a road
you were told was headed to the promised land When did you let the shadows finally take the wheel and spread their disease along the dash
When did the pavement become flesh and bone You're sick You're feverish You're blind and leading yourself into the weeds
You hear voices
swearing that they're strong against the fear and the tears and the rags you've been given to wear What will you do when they leave you raped and pleading
and bound to the thorns in the trees What will you do when you look around and see all the hated children hanging like garland
Legs tied to each other
swaying in the poisoned wind and feel your skin peeling to the tune of a redemption call
Burning off at the touch of your crutches rotten seed What will you do when they bind you to the wall and force you to watch
as they pump you full of flesh
and pull their larvae twisting from between your dying thighs over and over and over again
When they bind your lips with molten rock because the sound of your voice becomes the weapon stabbing at their ears when you won't shut up to just make their god damned
meals
and offspring More larvae breaking from your womb falling to the floor How big and silent
do you think their hive will be when you have no where to run When they give you no time to rest No say
No property
No cloth for your back No bandage for your wounds Some people believe that we should go back to when they themselves
would be the enemy the weak the used and abused the expense no one will miss when it's chopped and mixed
and poured into the soil of their cursing fields
Is that really you Is your whole existence really so worthless that you want your soul to die Do you really want the world to burn with you down
*Image credit to blauthbianca, through Pixabay: https://pixabay.com/users/blauthbianca-6967180/
*Note: I chose the image, created by blauthbianca, because it makes me think of someone choosing to be introspective; someone trying to look at what has happened to them, and trying to heal from their own traumas. Someone who is looking at life with some hope for themselves, rather than fear of having nothing. The version of themselves that the person who inspired the poem could have chosen to be, or could have sought help to become, if they cared to try.